


The Secret Ingredient

by Ferrero13



Series: The Secret Ingredient [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fairies, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrero13/pseuds/Ferrero13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a fact. All the nations know it. England <em>cannot</em> cook. He must, in fact, not be allowed within spitting distance of a kitchen.</p>
<p>Except, it turns out, it isn't.</p>
<p>中文翻译 (Chinese translation)：[<a href="http://tieba.baidu.com/p/4229561628">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Secret Ingredient

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2014 USUK secret Santa as a gift for vorussenpai on tumblr. I took some liberties with the prompt, which I hope the person for whom this was written wouldn’t mind. From your other prompts I got the feeling that you wanted something light-hearted and maybe a little crack-ish, but I had so much problem writing something that flowed according to the structure laid out that I just had to add in my own elements and switch things around. I’m sorry! ><
> 
> I have literally waited hours to post this in compliance with the rules of the exchange. It would've been past noon on Christmas day for me when it reaches Christmas morning at 00:00 CST.
> 
> USUK with a dash of background Franada.
> 
> Prompt: England discovers that America has a horrible secret—that he’s been lying about disliking England’s scones and England feels amazing, ultimate euphoria, I suppose. Eventually, he corners America on the subject and gets America to admit it after a bit of poking and prodding. After America goes on about how much he likes them England is so overwhelmed by happy feelings he gives America a smooch!

At the heart of a dense forest on an island that would eventually come to be known as Great Britain, a child sat, alone, in a clearing. His arms were short and pale, and in his hands was a bow crafted from a fallen tree. About his head of fine, golden hair flittered a small gathering of gossamer-winged fairies, each with a dress spun of silk and flower petals. They chittered to him with their tiny, tinkling voices and left trails of sparkling dust in their wake.

“Little Albion,” they said. “Why are you upset? Have you been hurt again?”

The child sniffled, but shook his head. “I’m not injured, and you already know by now that nobody likes me. I tried—I tried so hard to be nice to the others but—but they fired at me!”

“Everything will be all right, child. You are destined for greatness.” Close by, another group of fairies twittered angrily among themselves about they revenge they would take on behalf of the child whom they loved most, their usually pleasant tintinnabulation transforming into high-pitched screeching.

“I don’t care! I just don’t want to be alone anymore. Why doesn’t anybody like me? Only your kind ever cared about me.”

“And we’ll always love you, little Albion,” the fairies assured the child. “Anyone who doesn’t is blind.”

“But that doesn’t matter if no one likes me anyway!” the child cried.

The fairies fell silent for a moment. After a while, one of them spoke in a clear voice, “What if we gave you a way to tell who will hurt you most?”

“But…but how will you do that?”

“You will have to come up with a way yourself. Any magic we perform on people must only be at their will and according to their wishes.”

“Can’t you give me an idea?”

“We’re sorry, child. We would love to, but we can’t. Sleep on it, all right, little Albion? Call us when you’ve decided.” As they said this, their lights began to fade and recede.

“No! Don’t go! Please, stay with me?”

The lights brightened. “Of course, child, sleep tight.”

The child smiled a little as the fairies pressed fluttering kisses to his temple and hair, his eyes creasing into green crescents. “Will you bring me sore of your special nectar tomorrow when I wake up?”

“Anything for our darling little Albion,” they agreed.

\---

“Have you thought of anything yet, Albion?”

The child looked slightly chastened. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of anything.”

“That’s all right. Come, child, have some of our nectar. It’ll taste delicious because it’s been prepared with all our love,” the fairies told him, shining with promise and affection.

“That’s it!”

“What is it?”

“If someone doesn’t like me and eats what I make, they’ll die!”

The fairies’ glow dimmed a little. “We can’t kill people, Albion.”

“Then make my food taste horrible! Give them a tummy ache!” the child insisted.

“Little Albion, do you know that the love that makes food taste good comes from the person who makes the food, not the person who eats it?”

“Does that mean you can’t make it happen?” A distinct wobble swallowed the edges of the child’s words.

“We could do it, but you must be absolutely sure that this is what you want. We can’t undo our own spells, especially spells like this that are tied to people’s lives and feeling.”

The child smiled toothily, his wild hair messed up further by enthusiastically nodding his head. “Okay! Thank you!”

“Now, we can’t actually change objects but we can change people’s perception of them. What this means is that your food will still be however you made it, but once someone who’s mean to you eats it they’ll find it terrible tasting. If they’re bad enough, we’ll make it so that they feel ill for a while, okay?”

“But what if someone actually likes me for once? Will my food still taste bad?”

“Your food will taste exactly like it is to them. You don’t want them thinking it tastes good when all you’ve fed them is uncooked meat, do you? It’ll still give them tummy aches no matter how delicious it is because we can’t change the fact that it’s raw. So learn to cook well, okay? One day you’ll find someone who loves you with all they have and you’ll never have to worry about being alone ever again.”

The glowing fairies formed a circle around the child, whose green cloak started to blow in a gentle, magical breeze, and the spell was cast.

\---

As time passed, little Albion grew to become a fine hunter, and then a soldier, and then a knight, and then a pirate. The magic that had been cast was forgotten in favour of learning to harness the winds and setting sail to the continent of America. The child had shed both blood and tears, and where once stood a little boy who ran and hid from those who would wish him ill, was a young man with a strength earned from experience and distrust. He had no reason to fear because all who knew his name would know his history, and all who knew his history knew that they ought to be the ones who had cause to fear.

He was fearless, and he was Britannia.

\---

Arthur Kirkland, he decided, would be different from Captain Kirkland. He had served his Queen and his Kingdom all his life and it was time he set aside a little bit of himself for another purpose. It had been centuries since he’d last embraced and been embraced in return, and, as he first laid eyes on the cherub with hair the colour of wheat, a small part of him broke apart from the rest of his vicious, duty-bound heart.

That small part vowed that he would love this child as he himself had never been loved, and that history would not repeat itself.

Arthur Kirkland, he decided, would be the ultimate gentleman.

\---

But, of course, before the child came into his care, bloody France had to tempt the little angel with his fanciful cuisine, while he had on him only some scones he’d made. There was no way he would win the child over if it came down to food—everyone had told him his scones tasted like coal and had the consistency of rocks, and even his own brothers bemoaned their inedibility.

As he despaired, crouched in the field of tall grass where France was courting the boy with increasingly ridiculous-looking foods, he felt a tiny hand on his arm.

“Are you okay, Mister England?”

The child had come to him.

\---

Over the next few years, England took to the seas many more times. Each sea-faring journey became progressively shorter as love for adventure was eventually eclipsed by love for a child he left behind in the Americas. He would run up the harbour as soon as the gangway was lowered to meet his beloved America halfway to their estate.

He offered to cook for America and the child enthusiastically took him up on it. He had thought of not cooking anymore since the rest of the world thought his food was trash and he didn’t want to accidentally poison his beloved child, except America actually like his food and never fell ill like the others did. To England himself, everything tasted all right, if slightly bland. There was more for him and America, at least, if no one else would eat his scones.

He couldn’t understand why nothing he made ever turned out nicely. It mystified him why he was apparently still so atrocious at cooking when it was one of the few skills he’d honed since as long as he could remember.

Sighing, England pulled a batch of piping hot scones out from the oven and laid them on a cooling rack. He pinched a crumb off one of the scones and tried it. He frowned. “Honestly, why does anyone ever think that this tastes like charcoal? It’s perfectly fine."

“America?” England called up the stairs. “I made some scones. If you want some they’re cooling where they usually are.”

“Okay!”

A heartbeat later a little blond child came barrelling down into England’s arms, squeezing him tightly in a hug. The lick of hair on his head, which always stood defiantly regardless of any amount of hair products England smothered it with, bounced cheerfully when America giggled into his waist.

“Thanks for making them for me.”

“Well, you’re one of the few who eat my food, aren’t you? So I might as well make more of my scones while I’m here, so when I leave you’ll have something to remember me by.”

The giggling stopped. America looked up at England and his blue eyes started moistening at an alarming rate. “You’re leaving already?” America asked, voice trembling.

“No, not yet,” England assured the child frantically, “but I will have to. I promise to bring you gifts from around the world, all right?”

“I don’t want presents! I want England to stay here. Why do you have to go?” America’s hands gripped England’s waistcoat with enough strength to tear the fabric if England so much as moved an inch.

England smoothed the stubborn cowlick with his hand. “I’m going out to protect you, America, because you’re my precious little brother.”

“Then I’m going to grow up so fast that I won’t need any more protecting! So you can spend more time with me instead of fighting with France and Spain!”

England smiled warmly at the child, “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

\---

The next time England set foot on American soil, the boy he once knew was now a young man and the only reason he recognised America was because of that infuriating, gravity-defying lick of hair. When America embraced him, England realised that the colony’s strength had also increased along with his physical age, and he was now far less dependent on England than ever.

As he leaned into America, he felt safer and more at home than he had any right to be. America was a bloody colony, for goodness’ sake! Just because the yank had grown a bit didn’t mean anything.

However, it didn’t matter that he seemed to have shot up so quickly like a sprout. There was still time yet before it was America’s turn for independence.

\---

He was wrong.

The revolution had snuck up on him and, before he knew it, America was levelling his musket directly at the empire’s heart.

The sky cried the tears he had none of left.

\---

With the dawn of two world wars, one after the other, England was forced to confront the fact that America was no longer a child. The man who commanded his military to Hiroshima and Nagasaki was not the same sweet-faced angel whom England had hugged to sleep when thunderstorms howled against their windows at an American villa many long years ago.

The United States of America had become a strong, young nation when England wasn’t looking.

There was steel in his eyes with every order he gave.

\---

“England! I’m hungry! Give me something to eat!”

“You just had three burgers!” England tried to shove the arm America had draped across his shoulders off with little success. Such was the consequence of being a normal-sized person ambushed by an oversized country whose diet consisted solely of processed meat and carbonated drinks. “Besides, the meeting will start in a few minutes; there’s no time to buy anything.”

“Then anything in that bottomless bag of yours will do! I know you’ve always got food in there for Sealand in case he crashes another world meeting,” America whined.

England glared at his ex-colony. “I only have scones.”

America gave him a look of anguish.

Rolling his eyes, England said dismissively, “Take it or leave it. I’ll have you know that Sealand actually likes my scones, unlike _somebody_.” When had America stopped liking his scones anyway? Was it soon after his independence? England had put so much distance between them immediately following 1776 that he knew next to nothing about what happened after the revolution.

The younger nation pouted, then huffed, “Fine. I’ll take it. Give it to me. It’s not like I even like it anyway—there’s just nothing else to eat and I’m very, very hungry.”

England dug a bag of scones out from his suitcase, deadpanning, “You’d think you’d have learnt to bring some of your disgusting snacks with you by now, you ungrateful brat.”

The bag slumped as England pushed it unceremoniously into America’s open palm. They were large and covered in callouses from all the wars he had fought and was still fighting, and it would damn near be a dream come true to be holding them while walking down the street. But England was clearly getting ahead of himself because this was America, whom every nation wanted a piece of, and what was dreary old England compared to the rest of the world?

“No one ever eats your scones, but because I’m the Hero, I’ll brave your toxic scones so no one else has to!” America then laughed so obnoxiously that England briefly considered rewriting history so that no records would ever acknowledge that he had raised America. However much he loved the idiot, there were limits to his tolerance. Instead, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and tried to regulate his tone into something marginally neutral.

“We will have to leave now if we don’t want to be late,” England said as he tucked his book back into his briefcase. He picked it up and stood up. “Are you coming?”

“Of course! The Hero can’t be late!” America grinned, following England out of the lounge.

The scones bounced jauntily in the pocket of America’s bomber jacket.

\---

“I’m coming,” a quiet voice called from behind the door, which then opened with a soft click. “England?”

The ex-empire smiled wryly, “Hello, Canada.”

Canada blinked, surprised, and then his manners kicked in, “Please come in, it must be very cold for you out here.”

“Thank you. I’m not particularly used to seeing this much snow at once,” England chuckled. He shook the snow off his coat just outside the doorway before fully stepping into the maple-scented warmth of Canada’s winter lodge. Granted, given Canada’s acquaintance with extreme cold, the temperature inside the lodge was regulated solely by a small fire burning at the other end of the room, and it didn’t feel much warmer than the outside. Still, it was shelter from the wind and snow.

“I imagine not, if you’ve been in London all this time,” Canada agreed, taking England’s coat from him after closing the door. England thought self-deprecatingly about the dirty sludge piling up on the sidewalks back home after a snowfall, which was utterly miserable compared to Canada’s winter wonderland.

After a steaming cup of hot chocolate had been prepared to warm England’s frozen fingers, they settled on the couches around the fire. England had a vague thought about how the red of the couch, the golden glow of the fire and the rich greens of strung leaves looked incredibly festive (not to mention the thick, white blanket outside).

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” England said between sips. His voice was interrupted only by the crackling of the fire.

“I’d like to think that you’re here to wish me a Merry Christmas, but there’s a higher chance that your flight to D.C. had to make an emergency landing in Ottawa due to the weather,” Canada smiled sadly.

England frowned, but the heat that rose to his face was hard to tamp down. “What? No. Why would I be heading to D.C.? I came to pass you something from the frog. He’s stranded in his own country because of some political debacle. It must’ve been quite a shock to see me when you were expecting him. I’ll just be going once I’m done here. I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”

“It’s all right. Please stay. You can have one of the rooms if you’d like,” Canada quickly offered, half pleased that Francis had remembered (and tried with limited success to fulfil) their promise, and half disappointed that England wouldn’t be visiting his brother (who, in the past few decades, would not stop pestering him about how England never visited anymore).

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I have reservations for a hotel in case I can’t catch a flight back,” England refused politely, setting his mug down. He pulled a present from his bag. “Here. I don’t know what it is, but I hope it’s not chocolate; I brought it into the cosy passenger cabin in my hand-carry so it wouldn’t get bumped around with the rest of the luggage.”

Canada’s lips pulled upward slightly as he received the tastefully-wrapped gift, and his cheeks flushed a light pink. “I’m sure Francis isn’t silly enough to get me chocolates when I can buy them myself here. Belgium’s are the best anyway.”

“Cheers to that,” England agreed. “I got you something too. I realise we haven’t been exchanging gifts lately.”

“You shouldn’t have!”

“But I wanted to. I know it’s not much since your shops probably sell them anyway, but I made you some winter gear.” As he spoke, England extracted a tight bundle of woolly accessories knit with red and white yarn. “I thought you might find some use for them.”

“Thank you,” Canada whispered, rubbing the soft material between his fingers. “They’re lovely. I’m sure they’ll find more use than whatever Francis got me.”

“I may not like France much but I have to admit that he put much thought into your present. I think he almost burst into tears when his government couldn’t settle their issues by noon and had to resort to begging me to deliver it to you before midnight,” England huffed. “How typical of him, always being so unprepared.”

Canada tried to stifle a laugh. “At least I know now he didn’t mean to leave me here alone.”

“And you better be grateful,” England said jokingly. “I braved the harshness of the Northern American wilderness by risking being pounced on by bears and smothered by Canadian kindness to get here.”

Canada gave in to laugher. “I’m sure Francis will forever be in your debt.”

“And that’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for,” England declared, satisfied.

“It’s getting really late. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“I’m fine. I haven’t lived so long by getting lost in the dark.”

“Would you like something to eat before you go, at least? It can’t have been an easy trek getting here.”

England relented, “I suppose just a nibble will be all right.”

“I’ve got some pancakes, stew and smoked meat,” Canada said, rifling through his pantry. “Oh! Alfred left some scones behind. Would you like them?” He plucked from a cupboard the bag of scones England had given to America not too long ago England’s throat went dry.

“He asked me for those, the bloody git! Does he hate them that much that he dumps the on the first person who wouldn’t say no to him? Don’t indulge him next time, Canada.” England seethed, feeling his heart break a little even as his voice came out sounding highly offended. “I’ll take them, then, since nobody will.”

Canada bit on his bottom lip. “I’m not sure Alfred would like me telling you this, but—”

“Telling me what?”

“He actually really likes your scones. He tends to leave some in places he visits frequently and even has a whole stash of them back in D.C. so he can binge on them when he’s feeling down.”

“What?”

England felt like a deer caught in headlights. America had never given him the slightest hint that he appreciated his scones before. England’s opinion on his own cooking had plummeted with the lack of acknowledgement from the rest of the nations, and this revelation completely blindsided him.

“They’re not horrible, you know. Don’t listen to what Francis tells you; they don’t taste like charcoal at all, and they go very well with maple syrup,” Canada assured. “Alfred likes them a lot. He swears they’re nectar from the gods, though I personally wouldn’t go that far.”

“I didn’t know that anybody even tolerated my cooking, much less that you and America think it’s edible…this is…I don’t know what to think,” England said, stunned. Unbidden, a memory from a time he thought he’d forgotten came back to him.

_“…your food will still be however you made it, but once someone who’s mean to you eats it they’ll find it terrible tasting. If they’re bad enough, we’ll make it so that they feel ill for a while, okay?”_

_“But what if someone actually likes me for once? Will my food still taste bad?”_

_“Your food will taste exactly like it is to them. … One day you’ll find someone who loves you with all they have and you’ll never have to worry about being alone ever again.”_

“That’s impossible! Oh, lord!” England exclaimed. He quickly zipped up his bag and threw it over his shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry, Matthew. I’m going to have to cut this visit short—there’s a yank I need to see.”

Canada watched the door slam shut in England’s haste to leave. He smiled to himself. As his gaze fell upon the knitted winter wear he’d left on the couch, he remembered picking out a stray blue twine of yarn from the mittens, as if they had started out with three colours.

\---

The journey from Ottawa to D.C. passed by in a blur, and the heavy thumping of his heart only grew stronger as he raced from airport to taxi stand. The snow in D.C. was a light, spiralling flutter that was nothing compared to Ottawa’s storm. England all but shouted America’s address to the cabbie, who’d barely heard him over the carols blaring from his speakers.

Riding in the back of a cab with the constant grinding of pebbles under rolling tyres was nerve-racking. England realised that had no idea what he would say to America when he saw him. This realisation caused him to feel like he had made mistake in impulsively flying to D.C.. What if America didn’t actually like his scones? What if he liked his scones, but still thought of him as a brother? His mind refused to keep quiet the whole way.

The cab pulled up next to America’s residence, demanding a ridiculous price for ferrying somebody in the dead of night on Christmas morning, and left a trail of blackened smoke in its wake. England stared as the cab rumbled off, trying to delay having to press the doorbell until his nose had turned so cold and red that it felt like it may very well fall off.

England trudged up the steps to America’s porch with growing trepidation, and all of his previous concerns in the cab began to pile up again. By the time he reached the door he was ready to just head back to London.

He didn’t have to make a choice, however, when the door swung open and he was awash in a glow of blinking fairy lights and some action movie playing on the television. “England? What are you doing here? What happened to your nose? You look like Rudolf!"

England scowled at America, swatting his hand away from his face. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“What? Oh, of course, come in! Come in! You’re just in time! I was just about to break out the hot chocolate and marshmallows!”

It was hard not to compare America’s slip shod hospitality to Canada’s, and it must say something if even his fumbling attempts at being a host was endearing to him. As the second cup of hot chocolate (this time in a mug decorated with what England knew from his pirating days as a factually correct map of the northern sky) was pushed into his hands in the span of three hours, England eyed the copious amounts of marshmallows forming a bobbing mountain balanced dangerously above the lip of the mug.

“So? Why’re you here?” America asked, sitting down on his sofa. Black leather creased under his weight, supported by a sleek metal frame set firmly on the floor. Everything in the room seemed so shiny and new, unlike England’s own home draped so thoroughly in hand-knitted afghan that no actual upholstery could be seen.

England gripped his mug nervously, as if it could stop the alarms going off in his head. “I was at Canada’s just now. He said something to me.”

“Mattie? Why were you there?” America asked, brows creasing.

“Never mind why I was there. I want to know if what he said is true.”

“You know Mattie; he never lies.” America shifted in his seat. His eyes darted from the door to the wall to his cup like he was not only uncomfortable with his sitting position but also with his presence in his own home, which was an absurd idea because _it was his own home_.

England took a long sip of his hot chocolate, making sure to nip one of the marshmallows to stall for time. “Well. I heard you like my scones.”

“What? No!” America denied immediately. England felt his heart constrict painfully—stupid, _stupid_ of him to think that it could be real. Really, why did he even allow himself to go there? That was utterly foolish of him.

“Right. Then I’ll just go now,” England said stiffly, hastily putting his much down on the glass coffee table opposite the couch. He was done putting on his coat and almost out the door when he felt a hand clamp tightly over his elbow.

“What are you doing? It’s dark and cold outside!” America sounded slightly hysterical. “What did I say this time?”

“Let me go."

“No! Not until you tell me why you’re doing this.” The grip around his arm tightened.

“I said let go!”

“Is this about the scones?

“No!” England yelled, eyes burning with moistness.

“Fine! I’ll tell you what I really think of them.”

“I said it’s not about the scones!”

“I like them! I love them! I think all your food is delicious!”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it!”

America groaned. “If you’ve already decided how I feel about the issue then why are you even here?”

At that, England spun on his heels and glowered fiercely at America. “If you liked them so much, why haven’t you ever said anything? I spent centuries thinking that nobody liked a single bloody thing I make and you just so happen to have _loved_ my scones all this time but decided, _hey, England’s such an old fart that maybe I should just let him wallow in his misery_?!” The burn in his eyes felt like it was streaking down his cheeks.

Suddenly, he was wrapped in a hug so tight he was certain his lungs had momentarily ceased functioning. With his nose squished to America’s sweater and his eyes pressed against his shoulder, England was overwhelmed with a heady mix smells reminiscent of popcorn, hamburgers and soda. Unbidden, England’s hands came up to gather a fistful of Christmas sweater, and he buried his face deeper into the space between America’s neck and shoulder.

Everything was quiet for a moment.  When America spoke, his voice was small, almost chastised, “It’s just…I don’t want you to think you still need to make food for me. I’m not a child anymore, you know.”

“Why would you even think that? You’re so big even a blind man can tell you’re far from a boy.” England squeezed America tighter with his arms to illustrate his point.

“But you’re always fussing over me. I wish you’d stop.”

England started to extract himself from America’s arms. “In that case I’ll stop, all right? For the record, I haven’t treated you like a child for centuries, idiot. But with the way you whine it’s hard to see you as a man.”

“England!”

“So let me get this straight. You like my scones, you like all my other cooking, and you don’t want to be my brother.”

“That’s…that’s putting it bluntly, but yeah,” America stuttered.

A large smile bloomed across England’s face. “Good,” he stated, before pushing onto his toes and pulling America down into a kiss. It was sloppy at first because America’s mouth was slack and wide open from shock, but once the younger nation started to push back against him it evolved into something absolutely marvellous.

He was too old for fireworks and explosions behind the lids of his eyes. However, the warm, moist touch of America’s lips reminded him of Earl Grey by the window, watching umbrellas pop up like flowers nourished by London rain. It felt like home and belonging, like picking up an old paperback and experiencing something both intimately familiar and excitingly novel. He could remain here forever, lost in the sensation of America’s tongue licking past his lips with large hands lying warmly on his hips.

After an utterly breath-taking moment, America pulled back, chest rising and falling heavily. He looked about as red as England felt, and the grin on his lips spread from one rosy cheek to the next. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what brought this on?”

England threaded his fingers through America’s, “You wouldn’t believe it; it has to do with magic.”

America’s face twisted into something approaching constipated. “…tell me anyway.”

England tugged America toward the couch. “Have a seat first,” he said, and then rested his head on America’s shoulder once they sat down, snuggling up to America as the settled in for the first night of a new beginning. It felt wonderful to finally have something warm to curl up against, because fire never did have anything on the furnace of warmth that was America's beautiful, crooked smile.


	2. Epilogue

England tucked himself well and truly into America's side, making sure to wrap the younger nation's arms snugly around him like a scarf. He felt exceedingly warm, and part of that warmth, England thought contentedly, had nothing to do with America's body heat. “It was a really long time ago; I’d almost forgotten about it. When I was much younger there was nobody who would ally themselves with me.”

“Isn’t that just because you were a stuffy old man even then?” America teased.

“Oh, hush, you,” England scolded without heat. “The fairies cast a spell to help me tell the difference between someone who, well, liked me and someone who wanted to take advantage of me.”

“…your eyebrows?”

The older nation glared at America, who shrugged.

“You have to admit that they’re not exactly normal, and maybe no one likes them, but that’s okay, because I think they’re cute!”

“I am not _cute_!”

“Point proven,” America grinned, smothering England with butterfly kisses until he was wrestled away. “Can we get back to the story?”

“Yes, well. Long story short, anybody who doesn’t like me will now have urgent need of mouthwash or the toilet when presented with my cooking, while somebody who does like me will taste my food as it is,” England said, leaning back into America’s side. “And apparently I’ve gotten to Michelin chef levels with my scones without knowing because _someone_ wouldn’t tell me.”

America gave him a sheepish look.

“It’s strange. I don’t find my cooking as fantastic as you apparently do, and nobody means me less harm than myself.”

America hugged England to himself. “Maybe you just need to love yourself a little more? Is this spell supposed to affect you?”

“Did you just say something not entirely stupid?” England asked, raising a heavy brow dryly. “Let me break out the champagne.”

“Ha ha,” America shot back, pouting. “But I mean it. I bought some scones from what’s supposed to be London’s best and they’re not as good as yours, so if you think your scones aren’t fantastic, you have some issues with yourself.” He pulled England even closer to him. “I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt yourself, okay? You can cook and bake as much as you want for me from now. I promise I’ll eat everything!”

“Perhaps I will take you up on that offer,” England said, smiling up at the younger nation. “Do you really mean that? You aren’t just saying all this because you think I want to hear it?”

“Are you kidding me? Where do you think American biscuits come from?”

“Well, I suppose I can trust you this once.” England stretched up to press a quick kiss to America’s lips. “I’m knackered. My hotel reservation is in Ottawa—you wouldn’t happen to be able to accommodate me in this expansive mansion of yours, would you?”

“Does half of my bed sound good?”

“Right next to you sounds even better.”

\---

“Hello? This is Matthew Williams,” Canada said, trying not to yawn while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d gone straight to bed after England left and hadn’t been particularly pleased to be awoken his phone.

 _“Hey, Mattie!”_ an excitable voice bubbled from the other end of the line.

“Al? It’s two in the morning. What’s so important?”

_“Is that the time already? Sorry, my bad. I just wanted to thank you so much for telling Arthur about the scones!”_

“Hmm? You’re on human name terms again? I take everything went well.”

_“Yeah! Best Christmas present ever!”_

“I’m glad,” Canada smiled. “Give my thanks to England for delivering Francis’ gift.”

_“Got it! Is that why he was at yours in the first place?”_

“No need to worry, Al,” Canada chuckled. “I promise to keep my sticky maple-syrup lacquered hands off him. I have my own European anyway.”

_“That’s true. Anyway—Oi! Bloody git, get off the phone!—I gotta go. See you soon?”_

“Yeah. Merry Christmas, Al.”

_“You too, Mattie. Thanks again, and goodnight!”_

As Canada hung up the phone, a knock on his door and subsequent French curses about heavy snow promised a very merry Christmas for him too.

**Author's Note:**

> England is very difficult to characterise.
> 
> I just reread this and the pacing is all over the place. How did you guys even make it through the story?? I wrote this in early December (one of the first APH fics I've written -- any earlier fics never made it to the editing stage, and the later ones have already been published on AO3) so I haven't got any of the characters down yet then. I realise that nobody in this fic was particularly well-written, so I intend to remedy this by rewriting it someday. My sincerest gratitudes go out to anyone who pressed that "kudos" button. I'll remake this into something better for you guys.


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